Criss Cross Cranberry Sauce
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Aziraphale spends so much time focused on making Christmas dinner for their friends perfect, and doing everything the human way, he forgets one tiny little detail. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Written for Drawlight's '31 Days of Ineffables' prompt 'cranberry'.**_

"Angel? Hey, angel? How's it going in here? You've been working all morn … ing. Wow!" Crowley stops, mouth agape, at the southern end of a long table that could have come straight from the pages of an _Elle Décor_ magazine, barely an inch of the white granite to be seen beneath an infantry of serving bowls and platters laden with camera-ready food. "That's quite the spread. You really went all out!"

Aziraphale puffs his chest, grinning with pride. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"And you didn't miracle anything?"

"Not a thing," Aziraphale beams, lighting an equally impressive army of candles using a long, wood match; each gold taper rising from the wells of elegant, crystal candlesticks. Crowley watches Aziraphale bounce the yellow flame from wick to wick, pausing to let it catch and then moving on to the next. It seemed a rather inefficient way for an angel, of all beings, to light this many candles when he could simply snap his fingers and have them all done at once. But Aziraphale had been determined. They were throwing this dinner for their _mortal_ friends, so he'd wanted to do everything the human way. Besides, food prepared by hand tasted better than miracled food in Aziraphale's opinion.

How true that is, Crowley can't attest. He thought miracled food tasted fine. Of course, he didn't miracle food out of thin air. He can't create with his magic the way Aziraphale can. Crowley manifested food and drink from elsewhere, like The Ritz. Aziraphale would probably object to feeding their closest friends a meal of stolen food.

Crowley, on the other hand, thinks it would be hilarious.

If no one else appreciated the humor, Warlock definitely would. And possibly Adam. And Adam's battalion of friends.

Crowley seriously considers miracling up one tiny thing, like a tart or a casserole, so the lot of them can share in the private joke. But Aziraphale would feel the signature of his demonic magic all over the dish.

And he would be grumpy.

Crowley strolls down the length of the table towards his angel, perusing the gourmet fare, whistling low when he comes across eight ceramic bowls of a nearly identical dish, bookended by Waterford vases overflowing with tulips and roses. "Got enough cranberry sauce there?"

"Yes, well, I learned my lesson after last year's cranberry sauce debacle." Aziraphale shakes his hand, extinguishing the match. "I made one type of sauce for everyone. We have whole berry cranberry sauce …"

"The classic …" Crowley says with an approving nod since that one is _his_ favorite.

"Cranberry relish for Anathema, cranberry chutney for Newt, cranberry compote for Madame Tracy and Mr. Shadwell …"

"What even is the difference?"

"Vinegar. And some nuts."

"Ah. Kind of like the difference between Madame Tracy and Mr. Shadwell."

Aziraphale raises a scathing eyebrow at his husband. "Shush, you."

Crowley waves him off. "What else ya got?"

"Cranberry gelatin for Wensleydale, though I'm struggling over whether or not I should move that to the dessert section; cranberry ambrosia for Pepper …"

"See, now, I bet she made that one up … _ooo, it has marshmallows_ …"

"… cranberry marmalade for Brian, I even got jellied cranberry sauce for Warlock." Aziraphale gestures distastefully in the general direction of said abomination and sneers. "You know, that stuff that keeps the shape of the can?"

"Nnngh …" Crowley leans closer to examine it, but not _too_ close. "Bloody American."

"Quite," Aziraphale agrees.

"I honestly think you should have made everyone bring their own cranberry concoctions if they're going to make such a fuss about it," Crowley says, reaching out a cautious hand and giving the cylindrical-shaped cranberry mass a jiggle.

"Nonsense! I volunteered to host! It's my responsibility to take care of my guests!"

"I'm guessing that explains the seven cakes, three huge tubs of potatoes, four puddings, and … how many different kinds of salad?"

"Fourteen," Aziraphale says smugly, "but who's counting?"

"Not me." Crowley steps behind his husband and wraps his arms around Aziraphale's waist. "Everything looks _spectacular_. You've outdone yourself."

"Thank you." Aziraphale leans back into his husband's embrace, inviting a squeeze.

"So, what do you have for a main?"

Aziraphale melts into the warmth of Crowley's body, that demonic heat that simmers constantly beneath the surface of his skin like a well-fed furnace, and for a moment, his mind goes blank. "Hmm?"

"Your main course. What did you pick this year? Ham? Turkey?" He gives his husband a little wiggle. "_Duck_?"

Aziraphale opens his eyes, staring unblinkingly into the void ahead of him, that gorgeous warmth enveloping his body plummeting sourly to his feet. "I'm sorry. C-come again?"

Crowley chuckles, in on the wicked joke he's sure they're sharing. "I get it. I get it. Keeping it under wraps, I see. Big surprise. All right, then, all right. I'm willing to wait. It must be good if you won't even tell _me_."

"Yes." Aziraphale tries to mirror his husband's mischievous laugh, but comes off sounding more like a sick porpoise instead. "Yes, it is. It is … good."

"Well, I commend you all your hard work." Crowley kisses the crown of Aziraphale's head, unaware of how cold it has become. "I'm very proud of you."

"Thank you, my dear. A-always nice to hear."

"I'm going to go finish getting ready." Crowley gives Aziraphale a final squeeze, then heads off to the bedroom, leaving behind an angelic corpse since Aziraphale's soul has left his body. Aziraphale waits until he hears his husband's footsteps enter the bedroom and the door shut behind him before his soul reconnects with his brain …

… and he freaks out.

"No!" he screams hoarsely into his hands plastered over his face. "No no no no no! How could I be this stupid!?" His face snaps up, and he stares at the ceiling above him. "Don't any of you answer that!"

He'd been so wrapped up in accommodating everyone - and in his own inflated ego at how well he'd been accomplishing it if he's being completely honest - that a main course had completely slipped his mind. Seven cakes, three tubs of potatoes, four puddings, fourteen salads, more stuffings and vegetables than they'll ever be able to pack away, even eight bloody dishes of cranberry sauce! He spent more time on the gosh-darned cranberry sauce than he had a single other dish on the table, but somehow he'd thoroughly forgotten a main dish! No turkey, no ham, no fish - not even a Cornish game hen!

And the first of their guests is scheduled to arrive …

_Ding-ding-dong! Ding-ding-dong! Ding-dong ding, ding dong!_

Their festive doorbell, cheerfully chiming out the chorus of _Jingle Bells_, sounds throughout the flat, it's sense of dramatic timing so perfectly unparalleled, Aziraphale could almost believe that the Almighty had rung it to mess with him.

But no. His luck isn't that good.

"That's gotta be the Dowlings!" Crowley sings, hurrying back through the dining room to answer the front door. He pauses to give his husband an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a congratulatory smack on the rear. "Again – wonderful work, love. Truly top notch." Then he continues on.

And Aziraphale listens, paralyzed to uselessness by his own humongous faux pas.

"Warlock! Mr. and Mrs. Dowling! What a pleasant surprise!" Crowley greets the arrivers. "And right on time! Wait till you see the meal Aziraphale has thrown together! It's taken him all day …"

Aziraphale tunes out the rest after he hears Crowley usher them inside, take their coats, and threaten to lead them straight to the dining room.

Aziraphale has no time to fix this. He's officially run out. He's got eight frickin' dishes of cranberry sauce but not a single second to spare! In the end, he'll have to miracle up something! They can't eat a dinner entirely of side-dishes. But for the moment, with the Dowlings headed his way, he hasn't a clue what to do, doesn't know what to say. So before they walk down the hall and meet him, before he'll have to acknowledge their presence with a bright, uncomplicated smile, handshakes and small talk, he spits out the only word he can think of that properly expresses the emotions spiraling through his head like a migratory goose caught in a wind turbine, flailing fruitlessly in an attempt to escape.

"_Fuck_!"


End file.
